Zebraflesh
by ricebol
Summary: Reno and his broken little mind after the plate drop. Rated for language.


_Author's Note: This was an exercise in catharsis. Most of Reno's angst comes from his own head, and this is a prime example. _

_Some foul language, s'about it. Reno and Tseng (c) SquareSoft._

**

* * *

**

**zebraflesh**

It all started with a rumble.

Not much, really; just a low roar on the edges of his perception, barely audible over the keening hum of the chopper blades beating through the air above. The part of his mind he'd allowed to consider it was expecting it to be a bit more dramatic: fire and brimstone and golden-red tendrils reaching out of the haze, spidering their way down the support pillar as if seeking ground.

The other part of him just... didn't want to know.

One hand rubs absently at the friction-burns on the other wrist, as if the relatively minor discomfort could distract him from both the building explosion and the razor-sharp agony lancing its way through his chest and, assumedly, into his lungs. Broken ribs, crushed inward from the impact of a fragile human form against the unforgiving steel of the helicopter platform. God, why'd he have to jump? Why's he have to be so fuckin' dramatic all the time? If Tseng hadn't been as fast as he'd been to catch hold of his wrists... that slip into eternity would have completed unhindered.

_And why shouldn't it have? Takin' down an eighth of a city, Reno... maybe you shoulda gone with it._

No. Always better alive, always better alive. Right? The Cetra bitch sitting across from him in a state of near-catatonia isn't paying attention to anything save the view out the window. He finds himself irrationally infuriated at her, as if she were to blame for this, for all of this...

_Riiiight. Blame her. She didn't push the button, did she? Brilliant, that... fuckin' deadly. So what's it matter when you cash in your ticket? Y'know the whole thing's going up in flames now, long term, short term, it's all completely fucked..._

The helicopter gives a sudden lurch that even a seasoned pilot like Tseng can't prevent as the shockwave from the final explosion finally catches up with them, nipping at their heels as if to hurry them along... or drag them back. It's a flattening sort of pressure, and it's all Reno can do to stifle a cry as the wave slams into punctured lungs, all he can do to keep from staring at the blossoming cloud of fire eating up the support pillar.

Looks like he's getting his dramatic fireball after all.

Damn it all.

--

The hospital room isn't the worst he's ever been in... surprisingly well-appointed, due to his position. Private, roomy, a bit more color splashed around than the usual white-on-white-on-white.

He's always fuckin' hated white- and the others knew it. Be thankful for small favors, right?

And a balcony attached to the room's small window-door... a tiny balcony, to be sure, barely enough to fit two people, but still. It provides fresh air, seclusion from the machines beeping and whining in the room proper, and a spectacular view.

Of what used to be Sector Seven.

Coincidence. Or fate laughing it's goddamned head off.

_And why shouldn't it be? S'the least you deserve, you fuckin' monster..._

Is it?

Standing here like this, hands clenched white-knuckled around the narrow railing, leaning out over the city to the point of stitches and mending bones screaming their protest, Reno can't help but wonder...

...and lean a little further...

...and mouth words into the silence, into the darkness, into the gaping void that was once a vital part of the city.

_Is that...?_

No.

_It's..._

No. No, no nofuckingway.

Can't be.

He can't be hearing this.

Can't be hearing those screams, echoing faintly up to him, a cacophony of terror weaving itself into a single wrenching cry. Can't be seeing the wreckage drenched in blood and flame, the rancid stench of burning flesh and hair and bone searing the back of his throat.

It's not possible. Not from this distance. Has to be his imagination.

Has to be.

_Why's it matter anyway?_

Because...

_Because nothing. You did this. You killed all those people, those children and idiots and lunatics, those _innocents.

Eyes narrow against the wind, fingers loosen in their grip on the railing. A bit further.

_They would have killed _me_, if they had the chance. Would've knifed me in the side on one drunken night too many, would've ambushed me for the money they figure the suit means I'm carrying. Would've thrown a huge party, too. Danced on my grave. Even the chickenshit patsies, in their dreams, they _wanted_ me gone. Wanted the Turks gone. Wished only the worst on me and my own. So let it fuckin' burn. _

_Let it all burn._

A deep breath. Yes. Cement that thought into place, before it flies away on wings borne of uncertainty. That's a good thought, it'll protect him, it'll make this scarred city easier to look at, it'll...

Oops. There it goes. Gone.

And in the blank, empty seconds following, Reno very nearly does lean too far, fingers loosening dangerously around the railing, _enjoying_ the pain blossoming through his chest as the still-healing injury is stressed too far, _deserving_ it.

_I deserve every scream. God help me, I deserve it all._

He'd been there when the pillar blew, been there when thousands of lives blinked out, been in the midst of their cries and very nearly joined them. That last flash of their lives, that burst of outrage at the moment of death, he'd been there.

"Oblivion's too good, isn't it?"

He deserved... to remember all of them.

_Fuck that. I didn't know 'em, they're nothing to me._

Remember.

_Remember what?_

Remember how they sounded. As they cried. As they died.

"...fffuck."

"...this isn't me..."

_Yes. It is. It's you, and you're a monster._

"No."

"...no."

_They were all going to die someday anyway._

Feeble attempt, really.

_The city scarred me. So I scarred the city back. Eye for..._

Wrong.

_...an eye, tooth..._

Try again.

_...for a tooth._

And still the city glitters in defiance, a thousand fireflies stretching to the horizon. Look at this life. Look at this energy. Look at this gaping black hole in the midst of it all, and face it: after ten years on the job, after a decade of walking the fine line between being a cold bastard and a complete and total monster, you've finally toppled off to the side.

_Finally become a monster. Don't want to believe that, do you? You little shit, you didn't see yourself crossing the line, did you? Didn't even see it drawn there in the dust._

"...what do I even say to that?"

_You don't say anythin-_

"I'll tell you what I say. FUCK you, Midgar."

"...fuck you. Fuck you for making me care."

A second.

A minute.

An hour?

"...god... damn it."

* * *

(c) ricebol 2001. 


End file.
